


Gently, gently

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Compromise, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, They love each other, crowley and aziraphale POV, pre- and post-canon, touch-averse Crowley, touch-starved aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 14:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Heaven is cold and lonely. Hell is filthy and crowded. Aziraphale badly needs to be touched; Crowley needs fresh air, and light, and space. They can’t seem to connect on days after they’ve returned from their respective head offices.





	Gently, gently

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HakureiRyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakureiRyuu/gifts).

Aziraphale hugged the railing on the escalator down. 

He didn’t know why he did it - or perhaps he did, and didn’t want to admit it, because it was a stupid thing for an angel to do - but he hugged the railing when returning from Heaven, every single time. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were clasped together. He took a cab back to his bookshop and leaned against the window, not looking out, but shutting his eyes and letting his forehead rest against the glass. Warming it with his breath. Trying to convince himself that his skin was real and solid, and not about to drift away into mist. 

He returned to his bookshop and he took down stacks of books and piled them on his desk, around his desk, around his chair until he was entirely swamped by them. Until the windows disappeared and the walls disappeared and he felt enclosed, surrounded, safe. He wrapped himself up in layers and squinted in the dim, comforting light at the small text of old manuscripts, and shivered at the smallest draft. He didn’t open his shop for days. 

Crowley came over, in that time, to ask how the visit had been. To ask about upcoming blessings and miracles Aziraphale was scheduled for, to make notes on the Arrangement, to ensure nothing about their current situation was under threat. He brought bottles of wine, most nights, and sometimes chocolate, which he almost never ate any of. 

“You take them,” he always said. “You like them more than I do.” 

And Aziraphale felt, for a moment, like his essence was going to crack in two. Like the atoms that held his soul together were going to split and he was going to explode, and he desperately, desperately needed something to ground them. 

So he gripped Crowley’s hand - half a handshake, half something else, something neither of them dared say - and squeezed it hard with his _thank you_. 

And Crowley flinched away. 

It wasn’t an obvious thing. Crowley smiled his easy smile, same as ever. But Aziraphale had known Crowley for six thousand years, and he saw the strain around the demon’s jaw, felt the way his fingers twitched in Aziraphale’s, pulling back the tiniest bit. When he let go, Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley edged just slightly away from him. He noticed how his shoulders hiked up. And shame, for a moment, overwhelmed his desperate desire to touch something - what was he thinking? Embarrassing himself, even implicitly admitting some kind of need, as though his idiotic fear of breaking apart should mean anything to Crowley. If angels didn’t want to touch him, if they kept themselves carefully away from contact in Heaven, why should a demon desire closeness any more? 

Why should Crowley want - oh, Aziraphale had imagined it - why should he want to hug Aziraphale so tightly the rest of the world vanished, and be held, close, close to Aziraphale’s chest, and kiss him until they both forgot to breathe, until they knew nothing but their arms around each other? Why should Crowley want Aziraphale at all, needy as he was, when Crowley was so very solid and strong and real? There was no sense in thinking about it.

Aziraphale hunched over his mugs of tea and tried to absorb their warmth through his fingers up into his heart. Crowley left again. Aziraphale pulled out more books, more books, until he was drowning in them, but he couldn’t shake away the feeling of Heaven’s bright, clean barrenness.

___

Crowley walked fast up the escalator from Hell. He crossed the lobby in three or four strides, shoved at the revolving door, and burst out into the open. If anyone had asked him what he was in such a hurry for, he’d have rolled his eyes and not deigned to answer - and that included if he asked himself the question, as well. 

He slid into his car and slammed the gas, barreling through London at a breakneck speed, rolling down his windows to let the frigid winds of London whip through his hair. Hell was so _damp_, so rank, and it make Crowley feel, to shuffle through it, like a grimy cog in some creaking, foul-smelling machine. He drank in the light air of London’s evenings and tried to forget about it. 

He bought wine and chocolate for Aziraphale, and headed over to the bookshop to talk; though he always loved the opportunity to talk to Aziraphale, the shop, he had to admit, was well-nigh intolerable on those days. For some reason there were always the largest stacks of books littered around after his visits to Hell, and it made everything feel that much more claustrophobic. He could barely squeeze through the shelves, and he felt crowded, cramped, unable to move freely as he and Aziraphale talked. 

He wanted to stop talking, to leave off all the rubbish with the Arrangement and drive with Aziraphale out into the country, where the sky was wide and the world was open, and lie down in some enormous field somewhere and just talk about _nothing_. He wanted to breathe the crisp, fresh air that made him feel like the world was being made over again, and he wanted to relax, finally, and feel at peace. He wanted to spread his wings out without brushing up against anything. He wanted _out_. 

When Aziraphale took his hand, on those days, it was more than he could take. He hated the tiny crestfallen expression in his angel’s eyes, but he couldn’t be touched, it made everything feel so much worse, it made him feel trapped and scarcely able to breathe. 

In the end he always cut their conversations short. He got up and made some vague excuse about a temptation he had to perform, and sauntered out, relieved to be out in the street again, hating himself for leaving Aziraphale behind.

Aziraphale was an angel. Angels must be used to touching. He probably hadn’t considered the effect it might have on Crowley - and why should he? It wasn’t like Crowley went around describing what Hell was like. How would Aziraphale know?

Why should he care, anyway, even if he did? Why should he want to pull Crowley up into the sky and be silent and floating and free with him? Why should he want to leave the bookshop he loved so much, to be in the company of a demon? 

Stupid thoughts. Crowley swerved around cars, trying desperately to outpace the churning in his stomach with fruitless speed. 

___

That was how they existed, for years, decades, centuries. Sometimes months would go by where they didn’t have to report to Heaven and Hell, and they’d spend the time with each other - going out to lunch, seeing plays and movies and visiting art museums, sometimes simply strolling through parks together. There were moments when Aziraphale felt nearly close enough to Crowley to feel safe, nearly close enough that he didn’t feel the exposing light of Heaven on his shoulders. There were moments when Crowley felt he could fill his lungs and wouldn’t taste rot at the back of his tongue. But they were brief, and they always ended painfully. It always felt worse to go back, when their time was finally up. 

When they lost their sides, on the night they took the bus back from Tadfield to London, they sat next to each other for the first time. Not one behind the other, no need for concealment. Aziraphale sat with his head leaned back on the seat and tried to take it all in. 

“It’s over,” he said. “It’s really over.”

“Not yet,” Crowley muttered. 

“But we got through the hard part.” 

“Maybe.” 

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, at the lines of his face, dust and soot still clinging to him as a reminder of what he’d been through. It was too dark to see anything behind his sunglasses. Still, he looked exhausted. 

Aziraphale’s whole body ached suddenly. He wanted to kiss Crowley so, so badly - had wanted to kiss him for so long, and had never let himself want it so fully. He thought for a moment that he would dissolve if Crowley’s arms didn’t encircle him, if they kept him outside for another second.

“Crowley,” he said, and leaned forward, reaching out to him.

Crowley inhaled sharply. “Angel -”

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley’s shoulders had tensed, in the same way they always did. His fists had clenched. He couldn’t move away from Aziraphale, not when they were this close, not when he was trapped against the window, but Aziraphale could see clearly enough the desire, the instinct, to flee.

He didn’t move for a moment. He felt paralyzed. Then, slowly, he sat back against the seat.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have presumed.” 

Crowley didn’t look any more relaxed. He still looked like he wanted to retreat, but didn’t know how. “Aziraphale, I -”

“You don’t need to say anything,” said Aziraphale quickly. He could feel the shame starting up in his stomach again, bright and acidic, feel it seeping out into his veins, choking him. What a fool he was. Still. To think that anyone would want him so close. After everything he’d put Crowley through, to assume that _Crowley_ would want him close, of all beings in the universe. He was unimaginably lucky to have even as much of the demon’s heart as he had, to receive his forgiveness for all his stupid loyalty to Heaven. But of course Crowley didn’t want him. No one did. 

Crowley didn’t move. He kept his eyes on Aziraphale, though Aziraphale’s eyes were furiously studying the floor. 

Crowley felt sick. His heart pounded hard in his chest, beating out some silly, reasonless fear - for a moment he’d seen Aziraphale coming toward him, _Aziraphale_, his angel, the being he’d gone through all this mess for, and panicked. He’d cringed at his touch, like he always did, and he could see in Aziraphale’s eyes that, like always, he’d communicated the wrong thing. He’d communicated disinterest.

He opened his mouth, tried to speak. He found he didn’t have the words. He couldn’t explain; what was there to explain? He’d lived this way for so long he didn’t know how to put his mouth around it. 

“I -” he tried. “Aziraphale, I’m -”

“Shhh.” Aziraphale’s voice trembled. “Don’t apologize.” 

_I love you_, he wanted to say. _I’m in love with you_. But then he’d have to qualify it, have to explain _but I can’t kiss you, I can’t hold you, I can’t be what you want from me._ He’d have to admit what he’d always known to be true, which was that he was not enough for the angel, could not love him in the way he wanted, in the way angels must expect to be loved. He’d have to lay himself bare and tell Aziraphale _Hell broke me. I’m not like you anymore._

What would be more painful - saying that, or watching Aziraphale blink back tears and stare away from him? What could be worse than making Aziraphale think he wasn’t loved? 

“Listen,” he tried again.

“Crowley, it’s nothing,” said Aziraphale sharply. “Let’s just get back to your flat.” 

And he didn’t have the strength to argue, so he sat against the window and waited. Counting the seconds until he could be off this bus, which already felt so cramped, so confining, even with no one but Aziraphale around. 

They’d gotten Heaven and Hell off their backs, for now. That was all Crowley could hope for. That was all he could ever expect. However similar they might sometimes feel, they were still an angel and a demon, and they would never, ever be rid of that. 

But Crowley felt sick as he took his eyes off Aziraphale. He felt hollow, for a moment, as he thought of the days stretching ahead of them, exactly the same as the days that plodded through their past. He couldn’t help feeling that maybe, though they’d saved the world, nothing had really changed; the weight of the universe and of six thousand years lay upon their shoulders, and that, despite a million friendly gestures and kind words, could never be escaped. He felt like a broken, hollowed-out thing, after all this time desperate for connection, still incapable of actually making it.

Beside him Aziraphale felt the same. 

___

They kept silent, and avoided eye contact. They discussed their plan rationally, they shook hands and swapped corporations, and then Crowley went off to bed, and Aziraphale sat up all night, stewing in his own thoughts and wishing he could find some solace in sleep. They went out the next day, and their conversation was stilted, careful. They didn’t ask each other how they felt. They didn’t ask themselves. 

_Everything back just the way it was_, said Crowley, in Aziraphale’s body, and Aziraphale didn’t argue. 

But then Crowley was snatched from beside Aziraphale, and when Aziraphale turned to see him being dragged away, and fear leapt up into his throat, he heard the voice of a demon beside him - and suddenly something heavy had cracked over his head, and then -

And _then_, everything began to change. 

___

They lingered long at the Ritz over their meals. Aziraphale savored every bite of his dessert; Crowley took only a few bites of his before offering the rest to Aziraphale. Aziraphale felt the characteristic swell of affection within him when Crowley pushed the plate toward him, but it was different from the swells he’d felt in the past. Different, because the memories of Hell were still fresh and deep-cut into his mind.

“Shall we walk?” he asked, when finally the dessert was finished, and the bill paid.

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale didn’t reach for his hand as they stood.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Surely he hadn’t thought Hell would be pleasant, but despite himself he’d imagined something like Heaven - gloomier, perhaps, but not so airless and oppressive. He hadn’t been prepared for the crowds that had hissed at him as he’d been manhandled through the stinking hallways, hadn’t been prepared for hundreds of glowering faces all chanting _guilty_ and gleefully awaiting his obliteration, hadn’t been prepared for the casual slaughter of a weaker demon just to test the archangel Michael’s word. 

He glanced over at Crowley as they left the restaurant side-by-side. He hadn’t realized, hadn’t thought to realize, that Crowley might have other reasons than disinterest for not wanting to be touched. 

Crowley kept his head down, studying the ground, as they strolled back towards the park. They still didn’t speak, not until they reached their old bench, site of a thousand secret conversations, a thousand clandestine meetings before they’d reached their freedom.

“Let’s not sit here,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Where do you want to sit?” 

Aziraphale gestured vaguely toward a wide, empty patch of grass. Crowley frowned at him, for a moment, as though confused. Aziraphale didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“All right,” Crowley said, and they walked together, out onto the grass. Aziraphale sat awkwardly, trying not to worry the grass would stain his trousers; Crowley sprawled himself out on his back, hands behind his head, and gazed up at the dimming sky. 

“What are we going to do now?” he asked. 

Aziraphale gazed down at him. His aching desire to hold Crowley had, at last, been swallowed by something else - the picture of him, dragged through Hell, cruel hands and leering faces following him, surrounding him. The picture of his grimace every time he said goodbye to Aziraphale and left Earth for Hell, and his distance, his aversion to touch, on the days afterward. The picture of Crowley, who was so strong and yet so _fragile_, having to face that century after century, alone. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted softly. “But I hope - Crowley, I hope we’ll be doing it together.” 

Crowley’s face turned toward Aziraphale’s. Slowly he reached for his sunglasses, pushing them up his face so they caught in his hair. His golden eyes found Aziraphale’s blue ones, and slowly fastened on them. 

“We will be,” he said. 

Aziraphale swallowed. The certainty in Crowley’s voice, the steadiness, warmed him more than he’d thought they could. His words were sweet as they wrapped around him. 

“I’m never leaving your side again,” said Crowley, nearly fierce. 

Aziraphale forced a lighthearted tone. “Well, I imagine you’ll want to leave my side a few times, dear. You’ll want to go driving in your Bentley, or something. You’ll grow sick of me soon enough, now that there’s no work to talk of -”

“No.” 

Aziraphale was silent. Their eye contact didn’t waver. 

Crowley pushed himself slowly upright, shifting position so he was half-sitting, half-kneeling and facing Aziraphale. Then, for the first time that Aziraphale could remember, he scooted closer. He reached out a trembling hand and tapped Aziraphale’s wrist, lightly, tenderly. 

“I always assumed,” said Crowley, “that the reason you wanted to touch me was - because that was just what angels did.” 

The absurdity of that statement almost made Aziraphale want to laugh, but the laugh choked off somewhere in his chest, emerging noiseless. “Ah. An easy thing to presume, I suppose.” 

“I never knew it was like that. The Heaven I remember - it wasn’t like that.” Crowley was slow, so very slow, in touching Aziraphale’s hand again. In lifting it gently with both of his. The contact was like sunlight on Aziraphale’s skin, like clean water, like healing. “It’s so empty there now. It’s so - so _cold._” 

The very word, and the memories it evoked, sent a shiver through Aziraphale. When the hand Crowley was holding trembled, Crowley tightened his grip, just slightly. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “I didn’t know what Hell was like, either.” 

Crowley’s eyes widened. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” 

“Not in any vengeful way.” Aziraphale shrugged. “But they weren’t - they weren’t very gentle with me.” 

Crowley glared at the ground, as if his eyes could throw daggers down to Beelzebub herself. Aziraphale was slow, just as slow as Crowley had been - more so, just to be safe, to be sure he wasn’t going too fast for Crowley - when he lifted the hand Crowley had been cradling and touched it under Crowley’s chin, tilting his head back up. 

“In Heaven,” he asked, “were they gentle with you?” 

Crowley shook his head. “They didn’t hurt me, but - they barely touched me. Like I was vermin. Like I’d been contaminated with some kind of disease they wanted to protect themselves from.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale grimaced. “Yes, they do make you feel that way.” 

Crowley bit his lip. “Aziraphale.” 

“It’s all right,” said Aziraphale, withdrawing his hand again, keeping his distance. “It’s all right. We’re free of both of them now.” He offered Crowley a smile, hoping to communicate his love through his eyes, hoping Crowley could understand it still. 

Crowley place a hand - light, so light it could barely be called resting - on Aziraphale’s knee, and smiled back. “We can be gentle with each other.” 

“Exactly.” Aziraphale put his hand over Crowley’s. 

They stayed there for a while, seated in the grass, close to each other - closer, Aziraphale thought, than they’d ever been before. Closer than Crowley had ever allowed him to be, and not simply because of the loving pressure of Crowley’s palm on his knee. Beneath the sky, as the sun set and the stars came out one by one, they exchanged understandings deeper than any they had before. The crushing need was gone from Aziraphale’s chest. All he wanted, now and forever, was to be close to Crowley like this. 

When the park emptied, they lay on their backs, both of them, to gaze up into the night. They didn’t move. Wind rippled over them, but it wasn’t the frigid wind of Heaven, and Aziraphale felt safe, here on the ground beneath it.

“You know,” said Crowley softly, “I sometimes worry I won’t be enough for you.” 

Aziraphale could think of no comforting response to this, no reassurance, that would be more effective than the truth. “Me too.” 

Crowley’s fingers reached out and twined together with Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale shut his eyes and basked in the love that filled him. 

“But we _are_ enough,” Crowley said. “For us. We’re enough.” 

They were.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my content? Find me on tumblr @whatawriterwields!


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